Dancingkatz's Drabbles and Ficlets
by dancingkatz
Summary: A variety of short and maybe not so short standalone LoTR fics. Various Characters, canon and OC. Book and Movie-verse. Some humorous, some sad, some hopeful, some angsty. Various Ratings up to Teen.
1. Dust

**Dust**

"Achoo!"

_Why did books always attract so much dust?_ Mithrandir suspected that even the Valar probably had no explanation, save that it was just another sign of the Marring.

He stifled another sneeze as he searched the shelves, still irritated that the Archivist had confiscated his pipe (though the man had promised that it would be waiting for him along with some refreshments once his research has been completed for the day). He was sure he remembered seeing that particular codex...

_Ah._

The white goatskin of the binding had yellowed to a mellow gold over the intervening years since its making but the mithril leaf embossing still glimmered as freshly as the day it had been laid. The sigil of Isildur flashed in the lantern light as he pulled the tome from the shelf.

_"...The Great Ring shall go now to be an heirloom of the North Kingdom..."_

With a sigh, the wizard settled to read, the dust forgotten.


	2. Bibliophile

Bibliophile

The experience of feeling the solid weight of a carefully bound manuscript in his hands, the brilliance of carefully laid pigments and gold leaf, the neat orderliness of rows of sentences written in the blackest of inks, the scent of leather, parchment and the particular odor of the dust that seemed to only accumulate in libraries, were only part of the allure that drew him here once the duties of the day were met. His eyes scanned the shelves, identifying and discarding codexes full of the wisdom and thoughts of his forebears until he found what he sought at last. The cream-coloured leather stretched over the oak cover boards was soft under his fingertips as he pulled down a slender volume. Tucking it under his arm, he left the library and made his way back to his chambers. Opening the door, he smiled to find his visitors already waiting for him.

"Elladan. Elrohir. What story do you want me to read to you tonight?"


	3. Feast

Feast

She tasted the contents of the ladle and smiled. Yes, there it was; the rosemary balancing out the strength of the venison, the sharpness of the cider vinegar and the sweetness of the apples and honey. The potatoes were done as well as the bread and the red cabbage salad already waited on the sideboard.

It was only the work of moments to transfer the stew to a serving dish and set it in the hands of the server. Once the various dishes for this remove had been carried out to the Hall, she cast her eye round the kitchen, directing her assistants in the plating of the next course.

Some cooks crept up to the Hall to see what the reaction to their creations was. She didn't bother. So long as the serving dish came back empty she knew that her offerings had been enjoyed.

"Mistress Gaele? His Majesty wants to know if you have any of the venison stew left."

She smiled as she took the empty bowl from Jorel and filled it anew. Then again, sometimes words were sweeter than actions.


	4. Returning Home

Returning Home

"Why did I even bother coming back?" Roseth muttered as she took in the burnt timbers and scattered stones that were all that was left of her home of twenty-five years.

Shivering as the early spring breeze tugged at her skirt hem and loose strands of her greying red hair, she stepped carefully over the broken stile and crossed the trampled ground that was once her kitchen garden. Weeds had already taken over the small section she'd managed to plant before they were forced to evacuate the farmstead.

She rubbed her suddenly stinging eyes, belatedly wrapped her headscarf to cover her mouth and nose, and wondered if it were worth checking on the barn and livestock. "They probably slaughtered them all," she reminded herself as she made her way to the house's empty doorway. A single glance told her there was nothing left here for her.

In the end she looked about the ruined barn and unashamedly wept at what she found. Coming back was a mistake. She should have listened to her sister and brother-in-law and stayed in the City. "Oh, Caenir, this would be so much easier to bear if you were here."

Even the well was befouled, so she decided to drink from the stream that ran through the property before starting on the long walk back to the City and her sole remaining family. The banks were crumbled and noisome, the water muddy when she reached it.

She turned and picked her way upstream along the bank and up into the dell where her sons had played as boys, splashing in the pool behind the small weir she and Caenir had built together shortly after their marriage. She was surprised to find the weir intact, but knelt, catching some of the clear cold water that spilled over the stones in her hand.

As she drank, she heard an urgent bleating behind her. Rising to her feet Roseth followed the noise until in a small thicket on the edge of the dell she found a ewe and its newborn lamb.

Hours later, tired but optimistic for the first time since returning from the mountain refuge and learning of the deaths of her husband and sons, she walked back towards Minas Tirith already making plans for rebuilding and restoring the farm. The first thing she would build would be a sheepfold.


	5. Satisfaction

Satisfaction

by Dancingkatz

* * *

After one last trowelful of dark earth anchored the slender trunk and another sprinkling of water quenched thirsty roots Sam rose to his feet, his gaze fixed on the silver-edged leaves and single white blossom that glowed in the morning sunlight, feeling the familiar satisfaction of a job well done. Who'd have ever thought when he'd left the Shire that he'd be gardening in such a place, and for the King, no less!

"There, Strider. She's all set. Just water her regular and talk to her kindly and she'll be near as tall as that tower in no time flat."


	6. A Bad Habit

A Bad Habit

Coughing, Faramir batted at the cloud of smoke that the shifting breeze had blown into his face yet again. "Must you?"

"Hmmm?"

"That vile weed of yours. Can't you step outside even once without getting out your pipe?"

Aragorn shifted position, his elbows on the balcony railing, and made a show of considering his steward's question; then taking another puff of Longbottom Leaf, he said, "No."

Faramir offered his liege a pained look and after a short silence asked, "You do realise that you're scandalizing the entire population of the Sixth Circle, not to mention the even more staid merchants and craftsmen with this uncouth habit, don't you?"

"Of course." Aragorn hid another smile as he heard Faramir sigh in aggravation. After two more draws on his pipe he tapped the ashes into one of the decorative planters attached to the balcony and took pity on his friend and Steward. "Let me guess; Arwen has been after you to talk me into quitting, hasn't she?"

Faramir flushed and looked away, finally admitting, "Yes. How'd you know?"

"You used the exact words, save for a change in geographic location, that I've been hearing from her for more than sixty years on the subject." The pipe cleaned, Aragorn tucked it into his belt pouch and turned to face Faramir. "I don't smoke inside so as to avoid offending my wife's sensibilities or those of my councillors. Unfortunately, my councillors don't seem as intent on not offending mine."

"I suppose I'll just have to get used to it then. I refuse to stay in there," Faramir indicated the Council Chamber on the other side of the balcony doors where most of the members were busy politicking while the session was in recess, "if you get to escape them at regular intervals."

"Then you'll have to put up with the smoke." Aragorn suddenly grinned and added, "Of course, I'm given to undertand that it's nowhere as annoying if you're actually smoking your own."

As the sounds of another vociferous argument became audible even through the glazed panes and wood of the balcony door, Faramir grimaced. "I'll think about it."


	7. Green

Greening

Haron limped towards the broken dry stone wall, wincing as his newly healed leg complained at the roughness of the ground. The war over at last, he'd been released from both the Houses of Healing and Gondor's army only three days before. The healers had assured him that in time the limp and attendant pain would lessen and he shouldn't have too much trouble because of it.

He was one of the lucky ones, when the Enemy's troops had come across the Pelennor, they'd been too intent on reaching the walls of the City to take the time to destroy much of his family's farmstead. The house and barn were still standing and some of the livestock had even survived, fleeing from the trampling feet and lumbering war machines, only to come back to their fold and stalls when the fighting was over.

That wasn't to say there wasn't damage, but most of it was repairable. The problem was going to be the rutted morass that used to be grain fields and pasture. Spring was well along and if there were to be food for man or beast this next winter, he'd need to get the ground turned and planted soon.

But would the land return anything at all after being poisoned by orcish blood? Even knowing that the Enemy was defeated and destroyed, he was uncertain.

He clambered over the tumbled remains of the wall, thinking absently that he should build a stile when he rebuilt it since his days of easily vaulting over the boundary were now over. The distraction proved to be his undoing. His weak leg giving out as he tripped over a fallen stone, he fell painfully to his hands and knees.

His frustrated curse was silenced as his eyes fell on a patch of green shoots bravely emerging from the churned soil. Reverently, he ran his fingers over the verdant leaves with a prayer of thanksgiving on his breath. Then, raising his head, he realised that the little miracle was repeated all over the field.

He ignored the pain than ran from his hip to his ankle as he stood up, the worries of whether the steading would survive fading as he turned and headed towards the house to tell his wife that they were staying.


	8. First Sight

First Sight

I remember the first time I saw Minas Tirith as though it were yesterday. It seemed fantastical to me as I sat before Gandalf on Shadowfax after that long and wearying ride from the other side of Rohan. I even forgot for a time the memory of that accursed Palantir that I should never have touched.

I'd thought Edoras and the Hornburg (what little I'd seen of it) impressive but neither had the sheer grandeur of this immense city of white stone. And as we drew closer my initial guess at it's size proved to be woefully inadequate. Looking up towards the top of the wall and the great gateway I grew dizzy and even more awe-filled.

By the time we reached the Citadel I was beyond awe and I think it was only the sight of the Tree, barren and dead, the fountain's water dripping off its branches like mournful tears that brought me out of my wonder. The sheer oddness of it was what did it I think.

But that was so many years ago now. I'm definitely far from that young tween who wound up a knight of Gondor and a Tower Guard almost by accident. I couldn't get into my armour now if my life depended on it. My dear Diamond had sworn that she would fatten me up into a "proper hobbit" and I must say she'd done a right proper job of it.

We should be approaching the Rammas Echor soon and I wonder what changes I'll find when I pass through the gate again.


	9. Making

Making

The clash of sword against shield and the accompanying grunts and occasional curse could be heard through the window that was open to the warm breeze as Jorrell sorted through the black-dyed hides piled in the corner of the workshop. It wasn't exactly music to his ears but the noise of the guardsmen that practiced in the adjacent training yard was comfortably familiar after so many years providing saddles, harness and the various other leather goods necessary to the equipping of Gondor's army.

He had been constantly distracted by the noise when he'd been a newly-oathed apprentice the year that Lord Denethor had taken up the White Rod, much to his master's irritation, but long before he'd achieved his own mastery and had been appointed to take the now elderly Master Hagan's position as saddler for the Steward's personal guard, it had ceased to bother him. As he selected one of the hides and carried it to the workbench he idly wondered if he'd miss the noise of the guardsmen if he ever decided to leave the Steward's service and take up his trade elsewhere.

An order had come under the Steward's own seal for a pair of bracers to be finished by Midsummer's Eve and it already being towards the end of May, he needed to get started on them before time ran away from him. At the moment he didn't have any repairs to be made to harness, sword rigs or any of the cavalry's saddles but that could change at any moment and he needed to "seize the day" as his old Master was wont to say.

He'd only gotten the first bracer and its attendant straps cut out when he was interrupted by an emergency repair to a girth. Reassuring the officer that it would be ready by the next morning, he set the hide and cut pieces aside. He still had at least a fortnight to get the bracers finished.

Midsummer loomed less than two days away and still the bracers lay as yet unfinished on the end of the workbench. Jorrell glanced at the setting sun visible through his window and sighed. He'd hoped to have had them completed days ago, but starting with the Captain's damaged girth he'd been inundated with a flood of "emergencies" to deal with. He'd done what he could with the bracers in his spare moments but they were far from done.

Resigning himself to a long night and a cold and late supper, he lit the lamp over the workbench and selected the appropriate knife to complete the stylised wings surrounding the as yet barely etched image of the White Tree.

Dawn found the lamp guttering and Jorrell asleep at the workbench where the pair of bracers lay amid shavings and idle tools, the White Tree on each glimmering in the light of the rising sun.


	10. Mischief

Mischief

"You want me to do _what_?"

"You heard me."

"I heard you but I don't believe you."

"Come on, do it. I would but I'm kind of busy here."

"Busy? You're not doing anything."

"Come on, do it."

"No."

"Yes."

"Well, I'm not doing it by myself. He'll kill me."

"No, he won't."

"You're right, he won't kill me. He'll _worse_ than kill me."

"Coward."

"I'm not a coward!"

"Are to!"

"Am not!"

"Shhh, he'll hear us."

"Well, you started it."

"Alright, we'll do it together."

Moments later an aggravated voice bellowed, "Eldarion! Elboron! Which of you threw that snowball?!"


	11. Negotiations

Negotiations

"I was wondering how long you were going to last."

Aragorn jumped as the quiet voice came from behind his left shoulder and he grabbed at the balcony railing. "Faramir! I swear I'm going to put a bell around your neck if you keep doing that!"

"If I recall, I threatened to do the same to you at least once." The Prince of Ithilien leaned against the wall railing, his back to the view of the garden below and lit his pipe before continuing. "A bit more difficult than you thought it would be, hmmm?"

"You're one to talk. You don't even have daughters!" The King of Gondor and Arnor retorted, his upset and frustration clear. "How can they sit there and argue that this suitor should be selected because he will provide more tariff concessions and that one greater trade allowances? It's obscene."

"Because it's not their daughters who will be married off," Faramir responded. "This is something you should keep in mind in regards to Eldarion's bride. When the time comes for those negotiations, the young lady under consideration will be facing the same thing Elarinya is facing now."

Aragorn nodded and reached for his own pipe. "Have you any other advice in this matter, oh wise counselor? I noticed that you managed to avoid being involved in any of these discussions; to the point of being absent, I might add."

Faramir chuckled, "I decided the best thing to do was let those pompous windbags argue and discuss trade agreements and dowries to their hearts content while I investigated more pertinent aspects of the problem... such as which of the young men your daughter is interested in."

"I take it that explains the unusually frequent number of dances and picnics and such that Éowyn has been instigating?"

Faramir smiled and turned his attention on something over the King's shoulder. "You can go ahead and ask her yourself. She's looking rather smug, if you ask me. And so is your daughter."

Aragorn turned around and looked through the open doorway to the sitting room to see Éowyn watching his eldest daughter. Elarinya was wrapped in Elboron's arms looking perfectly happy to be there.


	12. Palantir

Palantir

I still dream about it. It's worse on the nights when Diamond isn't here; when she's out helping midwife a new Took into the world, or visiting her family. It's been years but I can still see it. I still can feel the burning in my hands and mind.

I want Diamond to come back and lie beside me. The sound of her soft breathing silences the whispers of that horrible--.

Her sweet scent (she always smells of violets, even in the winter) soothes my thoughts, and holding her close I can sleep in peace, the memories of my youthful idiocies stuffed back in their boxes and put neatly away on the shelves of my mind where they belong. But Hyacinth's husband came running up just at dusk saying it was her time and Diamond gathered her basket, kissed me and went off to do whatever women's mysteries she does, telling me not to expect her back before the morning.

So I am alone this evening and probably this entire night. I can feel the dreams nudging me, impatient for me to close my eyes so they can show me every mistake I've ever made.

Why did I touch it?


	13. Rainbows

Rainbows

I remember my first sight of the Glittering Caves even to this day. I was just a dwarfling of twelve years holding tight to my father's hand as he followed his cousin, Gimli Gloin's son, down the ramp from the newly made road to the equally new gates. Of course, at that time I didn't know that we were among the first families to make the journey from the Lonely Mountain and that the gates had only just been hung a mere sevenday before we climbed down from the wagon that had carried us so far.

I'd thought the King's chamber in the Mountain was beautiful, but for all its carvings, gemstones, mosaics and cunning lamps it compared to the first antechamber of Anglarond as a peasant's cottage compared to the King's House in Minas Tirith. Yes, I've seen that, too, but it was many years later after I had earned my mastery and accompanied Lord Gimli there for the fiftieth Jubilee of King Elessar's reign. But that day, all I had eyes for were the rainbows that refracted from the lantern light striking the multitude of shimmering gems set into the untouched walls.

I think that sight stayed with me through all the ensuing years, informing every piece of work I created as I attempted to affix that ephemeral beauty in glass, stone, gem or metal. I've still not yet succeeded and doubt that I will do so until I am at last within Mahal's Hall.

Even today, so many decades later when so many of Lord Gimli's plans and visions of what this place could be have been fulfilled--much to the wonder of all visitors, I still step into the first anteroom and the awe I felt then is renewed.

Little has been changed in that chamber; really, the only difference is in the style of lamps. The same rainbows still dance from the gems in the still and ever to remain untouched walls and ceiling. Before he left to go oversea with Prince Legolas Lord Gimli gave instructions that this chamber was to be left as it was.

_"I won't ever forget my first sight of it, Marin, and neither will you. I'll be happier in my mind as I leave, knowing that every dwarf that enters these caves for the first time will see the same thing,"_ he said as he paused on his way to the gates, a battered pack on his back and the axe that was rumoured to be the one he bore during the Quest tucked into his belt.


	14. Sparkling

Sparkling

By Dancingkatz

"This is wine?"

Legolas looked askance at the beverage Aragorn handed him, having never seen nor heard of anything like the contents of the unusually tall and slender glass goblet that fizzed with innumerable tiny bubbles.

The King nodded as he filled his own goblet and set aside the heavy dark tinted bottle. Raising his own glass he grinned at his friend's expression. "Yes, it's wine. Master Vintner Kelien has been experimenting and presented me with a dozen bottles of the results on my last birthday."

"I must say that you _edain_ never fail to surprise me. How ever did he get the bubbles into it--and why would you want bubbles in it anyway?" Legolas raised his glass to his lips and immediately sneezed.

"Don't inhale. I made the mistake of asking him and he lost me after the first six words of his explanation. What do you think?"

Legolas took Aragorn's advice and grumbling, took his first taste of the sparkling wine. Immediately, the grumbles stopped as the effervescent and sweet liquid hit his tongue. It was definitely a different experience; he would have thought the novelty of the bubbles would be distracting and possibly hiding an inferior taste or aroma but the wine, while light, was amazingly sophisticated compared to most of the vintages he'd sampled in the White City. "What do I think?"

He took another sip, reveling in the sensation and taste of tiny explosions of flavour as it slid over his tongue "I think you'd better not let my father know about this or he'll spirit your Master Vintner off to Eryn Lasgalen and you'll never see him again."


	15. Taste

Taste

- - - - -

"No, not yet. If you add the taters too soon, they'll go all mushy."

"Then what goes in next?"

"A bit of rosemary and a bit of sage. Save the parsley for the taters."

"A bit? How much is a bit? Is that the same as a pinch?"

Sam considered for a moment as he stirred the pot. "Well, no. It's hard to describe 'cause it depends on what you're cooking. The bit of rosemary you need for rabbit isn't the same as the bit of rosemary you need for venison and that isn't the same as the bit of rosemary that you need for duck."

His companion grumbled in frustration and asked, "Then how do you know how much to add?"

"Easy," Sam smiled and reached for a ladle. "You taste it." He dipped out a small portion and cautiously sipped. "Hmmm, a bit more rosemary perhaps. Here, tell me what you think."

Glorfindel hesitantly tasted the venison stew and frowned. "It tastes all right, but..."

"But?"

"It's... flat." Glorfindel frowned. "There's not enough of something."

"That's right. So what do you think we should add?"

"Well, it's got plenty of onions, and adding more cider vinegar would make it too sour. I don't know..." He tasted the stew again and suddenly his eyes lit up. "What about a little more rosemary and we can cut up some of those store apples!"

"That sounds like it will work. Keep an eye on that while I go to the storeroom."

- - - - -

"This is wonderful," Finrod said after his first taste of the savoury stew. He smiled at the elderly Hobbit who sat opposite him next to Glorfindel. "My compliments, Master Samwise."

"Actually, sir, you should be complimenting Lord Glorfindel. He made it." Sam smiled proudly at his erstwhile student who was pretending to act affronted by his gwador's surprised expression.

"_Glorfindel_ made this?"

"You needn't sound so surprised," Glorfindel complained, though he was obviously pleased that his otorno liked it.

"Well, considering the last time you made venison stew..."

Sam interrupted what looked like the beginning of a fraternal argument. "Begging your pardon, sir. I think you lost our bet."

"Bet?!" Glorfindel glared at Sam and then at Finrod. "You bet on me?"

"Actually, I bet against you," Finrod admitted.

"I didn't."

Sam turned towards the newcomer with a chagrined expression. "Mister Frodo! We weren't expecting you back tonight! If I had, we'd have made sure that there would be enough stew for you as well!"

"Oh, not to worry, Sam," Frodo laughed as he simply took Sam's second helping and sat down. "Oh, this is excellent, Glorfindel. I told you that if anyone could teach you how to cook, my Sam could."

"So what was the bet?" Glorfindel asked, pretending to sulk.

"I have to teach Master Samwise how to make some of our traditional dishes." Finrod hesitated and then continued, blushing furiously. "And play the 'Lay of Nargothrond's King' for Frodo."

"At the same time?" Glrofindel teased.

"Of course not. But the next time we go camping guess who's cooking?"

"Hey!"

Glorfindel's further espostulations were drowned out by Hobbitish laughter.


	16. Listening

Listening

The throb of fear-filled hearts, like the drumbeat of despair, had been audible below the frantic noises of preparation as we'd hauled ammunition and weapons down to the First and Second Levels and secured the gates behind the last of the few reinforcements sent from the fiefdoms to the south. The tramping of the Enemy's iron shod troops only intensified the inexorable rhythm of war as our throats grew dry and our gauntleted hands grew slippery with sweat. Soon the irregular clash of steel against steel added a frightening counterpoint then we were overwhelmed, everything descending into a terrifying cacophony of terror and death until a huge stone smashed into the wall near where I stood, sending shards of masonry, my fellow soldiers and myself flying.

The healers say that my sight may yet return but I am doubtful. The bandages are gone and yet the darkness before my open eyes remains absolute. But while my eyes are useless, my ears hear things I'd never noticed before.

Even if no one had told me that the battle had been won, I could tell just by the sound of the feet passing outside my room. The steps of the healers, though still swift as they go about their business are no longer frantic with fear and worry nor are they as heavy with frustration and grief.

"The King has come at last," say the whispers of the servants and attendants that loiter in the corridor, apparently hoping for a glimpse of Isildur's heir before he leads what is left of our army to the Black Gates.

That is a fool's errand as any man with even a few months' service could tell you, but the sounds I am hearing are filled with hope alongside the worry. It is no matter; I cannot march with them, as even an army of fools has no need for a blind man.

The days pass and the sounds from without my room are less hopeful but the feeling in the air has not died yet. Encouraged by its tenacity, I begin to learn to navigate the corridors of the Houses, insisting to my healers that I will need to be able to do as much as I can for myself if I am to make my living. I cannot tell from their replies if they are just humouring me while believing that the army and our newly returned king have perished, leaving us to be enslaved or to die at the hands of the Enemy, or if they too can hear and feel the same vestiges of hope that I can.

I had just made my way out to the gardens and safely to a bench when suddenly a voice rang out over the City, a voice such as I had never heard in my entire life, save perhaps in dreams. From above, falling into my ears as welcome as rain on a parched field the news rang out: _"Sing now, ye people of the Tower of Anor, for the Realm of Sauron is ended for ever, and the Dark Tower is thrown down."_

More it sang, of the return of our victorious King and wonders even greater. My heart sang with it, along with the entire City and though I still saw naught but darkness I dwelt in hope and light.


	17. Misfit

Misfit

- - - - -

"What's wrong, Pippin?" Paladin Took sat down on the garden bench next to his son and reached into his pocket for a handkerchief.

"Nothing." Pippin answered quietly, not looking away from the bank of roses planted opposite the bench. He'd chosen it for privacy, but he knew that nothing could stop his father from finding him if the Thain wanted him.

"Are you sure? You barely touched your tea and I didn't see you at lunch at all." The Thain wiped his brow and tucked the handkerchief away. "If you were all right, the strawberry tarts wouldn't have lasted a minute. Not to mention that you haven't drawn on your pipe for a good ten minutes."

Pippin looked down at his extinguished pipe, shrugged and glanced sideways at his father, still not used to having to look down at him. During the quest and the journey home, when he was mostly surrounded by Big Folk or was with Merry, Frodo and Sam, his unusual height really wasn't all that noticeable. But now, safe at home, everyone he met seemed to gawk in astonishment and any chance of a normal conversation vanished. Even the young hobbitesses that he'd been tentatively paying court to before going off with Frodo stared and giggled behind their hands, shaking their heads when he asked them to dance.

Pippin sighed. His father looked like he was content to sit on the bench for the rest of the evening and on through the night. He knew Paladin wasn't going to budge until Pippin had told him what was troubling him. "When we were Outside, except for Bree, everything was too big. I didn't fit it and it didn't fit me. Now I'm home, and I don't fit here either."

"Did you stop to consider that it might be that the Shire's too small for you now?" Paladin asked quietly.

"But--the Shire's my home…"

"I wasn't talking about you being taller than Bullroarer, Pippin. It's not that you stand taller than any hobbit in living memory save your cousin Meriadoc. It's that you've grown inside. You've experienced things that no one here could even imagine. You've got four more years before you're legally of age, but you're not a tween anymore. You grew up out there, that's all."

"That's it? I'm grown-up?" Pippin considered the idea and shook his head. "I don't feel like a grown up."

"I'll tell you a secret," Paladin said with a chuckle. "No one ever feels 'grown-up'. Ever."

"Even you? But, you're the Thain!" Pippin didn't think he'd been this surprised in his life.

"Yes, I'm the Thain, but that has nothing to do with how I feel inside. However, we aren't talking about me." The Thain pulled out his tobacco pouch and pipe and continued speaking as he filled the bowl and used his firestriker to ignite the pipe weed. "What makes you feel that you don't fit in—besides bumping your head on the lintel of the kitchen door, that is."

Pippin thought about the way he'd been treated since he'd come home. People he'd grown up with, who he'd played games and pranks with, whose weddings he'd attended, who he'd shared ales and stories with, now acted as though he were a stranger. The things that those his own age wanted to talk about or do seemed frivolous. Hesitantly, he managed to put his thoughts into words. "And Diam—er—the girls don't want to talk to me or dance with me. They just stare as if I were some sort of freakish curiosity and…_giggle_!" he added in a tone of frustration.

"Hmmmm." Paladin drew on his pipe, the smoke wreathing about his head. "I can't give you much advice in regard to the way the girls are acting. That's something you'll have to figure out on your own. But as for the other things you mentioned, perhaps it will help if we begin treating you like the grown hobbit you really are and not a flighty tween. I think part of your problem is that you got used to having responsibilities out there. Now that the ruffians are all dealt with and the business of reopening the inns and getting things back to normal are in hand, all you've been doing is the same sort of nonsense that all tweens do. No wonder you're uncomfortable."

Pippin considered his father's words for a while. "I thought I'd enjoy not having to worry about anything. I thought it would be nice to sleep late, talk and spend time with my friends, and spend my evenings down at the inn. But I was wrong. It's not—enough, I guess."

"Well then, perhaps you'll join me in my study tomorrow and help me sort out the plans for the new storage barn. It looks like it's going to be needed given the way things are growing this year. And if you have any ideas for other improvements I'd be glad to hear them."

Pippin suddenly felt something settle inside him; things no longer seemed so small or maybe he was just finally finding the place where he truly fit. "I'd be glad to."


	18. Political Expediency

Political Expediency

- - - - -

"Your Highness? May I speak with you--privately?"

Theodred, the newly appointed Second Marshal, looked up from the cluttered table that stood in his new quarters at the Rider who waited in the doorway of his new quarters, trying to attach a name to the man's face from the dozens that he'd been introduced to since arriving at Helm's Deep.

The man's looks were unremarkable being the typical colouring and build of most of his countrymen but a glimpse of his odd-coloured left eye brought his name to the forefront of Theodred's mind. Ceorl. Ceorl Æðelstansson. "Come in, Ceorl, and sit down if you can find a seat in all this clutter."

"Thank you, your highness." Ceorl stepped into the room and closed the door to the hallway, ensuring that the latch had caught and threw the bolt. "I'll stand."

Theodred raised an eyebrow and nodded towards the now secured door. "Theodred will do. What is so important or secret that merely closing the door wouldn't suffice?"

"Political expediency. Have you gone through Dægmund's pay chest yet?"

"Not yet. I only just found it and just looked to see if anything was in it." Theodred gestured towards a small coffer, its lacquered panels and brass strapping pitted and scarred, that sat on the foot of his bed.

Ceorl crossed to the bed and paused, asking, "May I"? his face solemn.

"Go ahead."

Throdred nodded, and watched as Ceorl opened the chest and lifted out what the prince had thought was merely the inner lining. He set aside the tray and reaching inside said. "I'll show you how to access the hidden compartment later. This is what I needed to show you."

The Rider lifted out a knife, a bundle of parchments, and a small book, and handed them to Theodred. "You'll need to read Dægmund's journal but right now you should know some things."

Theodred set the journal down on the table, along with the bundle of parchments and examined the knife. As far as beauty went it was rather ordinary looking; any of the Riders here at Helm's Deep, or indeed, the entire Riddermark could have carried it openly on his belt and not a soul would remark upon it. But despite its utilitarian plainness, the blade was of the highest quality, the steel shimmering like water in the lantern light in damascened waves. He was willing to bet his stallion Sigebeald's first get that it had cost more than his own knife and sword put together. "A fine weapon."

"One that doesn't exist as far as anyone knows. Dægmund chose to use it himself when necessary. However, I would suggest that given your connections, your hand should never touch it after this hour."

Theodred slid the blade home in its plain sheath. "What do you mean?" he asked, suspiciously.

"Political expediency. I was Dægmund's spymaster. Just because he has passed on to Bema's Hall doesn't mean his enemies will sit idle. Most of those who remain will likely become your enemies as soon as they realise that you are really in command here rather than just playing at it."

Ceorl indicated the bundle of parchments. "Those are messages that I intercepted right after word came that Theoden-King had appointed you as Second Marshal. I haven't done anything about the recipients yet. I felt it wiser to wait to see what your feelings on the matter would be."

Theodred frowned and exchanged the knife for the first sheet. At the sight of the handwriting he cursed. "Grima."

"Yes, the Worm himself has suddenly taken up a heretofore lacking interest in the doings of Helm's Deep." Ceorl's voice held just as much dislike and disgust at the mention of the King's favourite counselor as Theodred was sure had been in his own.

He quickly scanned the other documents, his anger growing. The gist of all were for the recipients to take certain actions that would make Theodred look like a fool or utterly incompetent, but worse was that these things would be accomplished by endangering the welfare of the common people and the herds. "I should have gutted that snake before I left Edoras."

"Taking care of the problem at the source is usually preferable," Ceorl agreed, his voice and face practically expressionless as it had been since handing over the knife. "However, given that he enjoys the King's favour, it's too dangerous. But that doesn't mean that you can't deal with the traitorous dogs who would do his bidding here."

Theodred's gaze slid over to where the knife lay, his face troubled. He was uncomfortable with what the secret weapon intimated. "No. I won't begin my command here with murder. There are other ways to deal with this. Put these back. I'll keep Dægmund's journal for now."

He gathered the knife and messages up and handed them to Ceorl, who returned them to the chest, his the spymaster's expression now one of relief. "I take it this was a test?" Theodred asked.

"Yes, and no," the Rider closed up the chest and turned his calm odd-eyed gaze on Theodred. "I needed to see what kind of man you really were."

"More political expediency?" Theodred asked wryly.

"If you like. In any case, you have my oath that no one will hear aught of this... discussion--or the contents of the chest from me."

Theodred considered the man who stood before him and smiled. "You have passed a test, as well, my friend. The idea of having a spymaster had never crossed my mind, but since it appears that some of the dangers threatening to the people I am sworn to protect are more insidious than invading Dunlanders and orcs it seems that I need one--would you be willing?"

"Aye."


	19. Snow I

Snow - I

Pippin stifled his yawn and looked out the window of Crickhollow's kitchen while waiting for the kettle to boil. He squinted at the glare of the morning sunlight on the thick blanket of snow that had fallen overnight and shivered in the draft that made it past the leading of the window, his mind slipping from the present to a day nearly a year ago.

* * * * *

"How are you doing, little one?"

Pippin pulled the collar of his cloak tighter against the icy wind and glared up at the big Man who had just addressed him. "I'm just fine, Boromir. And I do wish you wouldn't call me that. I'm a 'tween, not a faunt, you know."

"My apologies, Master Took. I didn't mean to demean your maturity," Boromir answered with a hint of amusement in his voice. "What I meant to ask was if you were managing given the depth of the snow."

"Oh, stop it! I knew what you meant. Actually, it's not the depth of the stuff that's the problem. It's that it's so cold and wet. It's enough to make me consider the usefulness of boots!" Pippin lost his glare and grinned.

"Given your response to my innocent question about your people's lack of footgear when I made the inquiry back in Rivendell, I suppose you're saying that your feet are cold?" Boromir's answering grin was a welcome sight compared to the grim visage that he'd been wearing ever since Frodo had fallen the day before.

"Oh, give over all that fancy talk. Yes, my feet are cold. And my hands and nose and ears. Hobbits aren't made for this much snow and mountaintops."

"Neither are men, when you get down to it. But we manage. 'Ware!" the Man snatched at Pippin's collar as the snow right in front of the hobbit crumbled and revealed a crevasse.

A moment later Pippin found himself lying half-buried in snow next to Boromir, gasping for breath and hearing Aragorn and the others who were walking behind them shout worriedly.

"Pippin! Are you all right?" Boromir sat up and turned towards him, looking worried.

"Other than being scared half out of my wits? I'm fine." Pippin sat up, took a good look at his rescuer and started laughing. "Oh, Boromir! You look like a snowman!"

"I look like a snowman? You're just as snow covered as I am."

Pippin looked down at himself and blinked. "Oh, so I am."

* * * * *

The rattling of the boiling kettle brought him back to Crickhollow and he absently made his tea, grief for Boromir's loss welling up in his heart. Dropping into his chair and returning his gaze to the snowy view he spoke his thoughts aloud. "You saved my life that day and I never told you thank you, did I, Boromir? Well, better late than never, I suppose. Thank you, for that time and all the others."

He raised his teacup in a toast.


	20. Snow II

Snow - II

"I hate snow."

I would have smiled at Pippin's tone of disgust except that I was roundly, if silently, cursing the stuff myself. The results of the Halfling almost falling into a heretofore hidden crevasse had sent a goodly amount of snow down the back of my neck and into other, even more uncomfortable, places.

Only minutes ago, we'd laughed in relief of Pippin's near escape and our snow covered appearance but now, clothing soaked and the wind picking up, neither of us were happy. Of course, Pippin was in the worst shape as my fur and leather cloak had somewhat protected me from being completely inundated.

Carrying Pippin, I now tramped behind Legolas as the elf sought a place where we might find shelter enough to perhaps light a fire. Luckily, the crevasse had turned out to be narrow enough that we 'Big Folk' could easily jump across it whilst carrying one of the Halflings. I'd carried Pippin across and noticing his violent shivering hadn't bothered to put him down but tucked him under my cloak.

"Boromir?"

"Yes, little one?"

"I wanted to--will you stop calling me that!--well... thank you for saving me back there."

"You're welcome. Perhaps we should let someone else take point from now on, as I really would prefer to not repeat the experience."

He chuckled and agreed. "Aye, once was certainly enough. Do you think there's any chance our spare clothes and the wood stayed dry? It would be a pity if Legolas found us a place and we couldn't have a fire or change clothes."

A sudden hail from Legolas interrupted us and I fervently hoped it meant that he'd found a suitable halting place.

He had, thank the Valar, and a few minutes later I gratefully set my passenger down and removed both our packs. Like him, I was more than ready for the heat of a fire and the comfort of dry garments.

"Pippin."

He paused in undoing the ties of his pack. "Yes, Boromir?"

"Next time, you can rescue me. Agreed?"

"So long as there's no snow involved, it's a bargain!"

I swear that his smile did more to warm me than any fire.


	21. Staying

Staying

"I'm staying."

I looked up from checking the chin strap on my helm and found my wife, Amdiriel, standing in the doorway of the kitchen, her arms crossed over her bosom and wearing an expression that dared me to say her nay.

I sighed and set the helm atop the mail hauberk that I had yet to inspect. "Amdir--"

"Don't 'Amdiriel, my love' me, Galhras. I am not going to be put in an over filled wain and dragged to who knows where in the mountains where I'm going to have to listen to Terris' new bride moan and whine about how he's going to get himself killed and that she should have insisted they move to Dol Amroth when they wed. You know that once she starts all the others will begin whining as well. There's no reason to go and hide--"

I silenced her by wrapping her in my arms and kissing her soundly. After a few very pleasant minutes I pulled back and laid my finger on her lips, forestalling any further argument for the moment. "Shhh, my love. I would prefer if you would go to the Refuge, but--shhh!--I will not make you go if you truly want to stay." I paused and saw the relief in her eyes then continued, "However, if you do stay, you'll be up in the Houses of Healing helping my Great-aunt Ioreth."

I think that the look she gave me at that piece of news could have killed Sauron himself.


	22. Throne

Throne

More from Denethor. Circa T.A. 3008.

I've seen the steps that lead to the empty throne my whole life.

When I was young, they seemed like a mountain to my eye--a forbidden one, since the time my father caught me playing with my toy soldiers on the bottom three steps and had much to say about respect for the long vanished Kings.

Gradually, as I grew up the mountain did not seem so tall, though it remained forbidden. I have to admit I often found myself wondering how the steps and great seat were kept free of dust if no one was to set foot on the black and silver marble. Eventually, increasing duties and frequent attendance upon my father Ecthelion in the Hall of Kings eventually reduced the dais and throne to mere background objects to what seemed to be more important living matters.

It was only once I succeeded my father and I stepped through the doors of the Hall for the first time as Ruling Steward, that the immensity of the steps and throne with its surmounting canopy were again apparent to me. As I took my seat in the black chair that had seen my father, his father, and so many other Ruling Stewards govern Gondor in the the long years since the loss of our King, I wondered if there was a man big enough to walk up those steps and take his place on that throne which was built for the son of Elendil the Tall. Men are of lesser stature nowadays, and I include myself in that statement.

There was one man who I thought might be big enough to fit Anarion's seat, but I was wrong. He left Gondor amid rumour and misunderstanding, and although common knowledge would have it that my jealousy chased him from the land, it was his reluctance to admit to us his true name and identity that angered me. My father was worn with the cares and burdens of rule and I had no desire to take his place at that time, being happiest in the field with my troops. I don't know if he's even still alive at this point in time or if I could accept him should he return.

As it is, I'm certain that I will die before I see a King seated on the throne whose shadow falls on my own seat.


	23. Words

Words

"…And so just as we got to the top of the hill a bevy of swans flew right overhead—"

"Hold, Pippin. Did you just say a bevy of swans?" Boromir interrupted the young Hobbit's tale.

"Aye. A bevy of swans." Pippin unfolded his arms from behind his head and sat up from where he lay supine on the bit of lawn the garden afforded.

"Didn't you mean a wedge of swans?" Boromir set his whetstone and dagger aside on the bench he occupied and frowned with confusion.

"No, a group of swans is a bevy. Everyone knows that!"

"Not where I come from. Well, I suppose even though we both speak Westron, the language has shifted in different ways for your land and mine." The Man took up his dagger and whetstone again and continued to sharpen the blade. "Pray forgive my interruption and tell the rest of your story, Pippin."

"Actually, it's a rather boring story when you get down to it. I wonder what other words for batches of things are different between the Shire and Gondor." Pippin cocked his head for moment. "I know! I'll tell you the name we Hobbits use and you can tell me if it's the same in Gondor then ask me one. All right! How about a clowder of cats?"

"A pounce of cats or a kindle of kittens," Boromir answered, then after a moment's thought asked. "What of a cry of hounds?"

"I've only heard of hounds, or any kind of dogs being in packs. That's three different things so far. A flock of sheep?"

"Sheep come in flocks in Gondor as well. A pulchritude of peacocks." Boromir smiled as he mentioned the birds that had been Faramir's bane when they visited their uncle in Dol Amroth in their youth. His little brother had been fascinated with the gorgeous birds, who unfortunately, did not find the feeling mutual in the least.

"A what of peacocks? I just call them nasty birds and be done with it. Every single one I've ever met bit!"

"My brother would agree with you. Your turn."

Pippin flopped back down onto the grass and thought a moment. "Ah ha! Here's one; a charm of finches!"

"Hmph! I'd say more of an annoyance. A few years ago it was all the fashion among the nobles to have pet finches and the incessant chirping was enough to drive one mad. Sticking with birds—a parliament of owls."

"A stare of owls." Pippin started at Boromir's sudden chuckle. "What? It's what they do!"

"Aye, which is why I laughed. Your term is much more appropriate than mine." Boromir drummed his fingers on his knee as he considered his next offering. "A flink of cows."

Peregrin burst into full-blown laughter and between guffaws asked, "Are you pulling my leg? That's the most ridiculous thing! Herd of cows!"

The Hobbit's laughter was infectious and Boromir couldn't resist. "Of course, I've heard of cows, Master Peregrin. Come, have you another?"

The next half hour was filled with intermittent hilarity as they exchanged words.

"A drove of asses."

"A plague of wasps."

"A cete of badgers."

"A clash of stags."

"A rabble of butterflies."

"An army of caterpillars."

"An intrusion of cockroaches"

"A bask of lizards."

"A pitying of turtledoves."

"A seething of eels."

"A grist of bees."

"A business of ferrets."

"A sounder of boar."

"A gaggle of geese."

"A cloud of tadpoles."

"An enchantment of nightingales."

"A siege of cranes."

"An unkindness of ravens."

"A scurry of squirrels."

"A leash of greyhounds."

"A skulk of foxes."

They had run out of animal names and Pippin suggested that they might come up with names for groups of people. "You know, something like a delving of dwarves."

"Hmmm. I wonder what Master Gimli would have to say to that? What about elves?" Boromir considered the matter for a few moments then thinking of Master Elrond's seneschal, suggested, "An ostentation of elves?"

"And what game is this, friends?" Aragorn's amused voice interrupted the Man and Hobbit and the two turned to see the ranger was accompanied by Legolas, Gimli and the other three hobbits.

"How long have you been here?" Pippin asked as he jumped to his feet. "Boromir and I were just comparing what we call groups of different things. Did you know that they call a clowder of cats a pounce in Gondor and—"

"Yes, Pippin. And they're called a clutter in Rohan. But didn't I hear something about dwarves? And elves?" Aragorn looked from the Hobbit to a somewhat embarrassed Boromir, his eyebrow raised in inquiry as he sat down on the bench.

"Aye," Gimli gave them a mock glare and leaned on his axe. "What was it you called my people again?"

"A delving of dwarves. I thought it was perfect because all the stories Bilbo used to tell said that dwarves liked to dig and mine for treasures and jewels and gold…" Pippin's explanation was cut off by Gimli's deep chuckle.

"And what have ye come up with for elves, then?" the dwarf asked with a mischievous glance at Legolas.

Pippin grinned. "Oh, Boromir thought up that one."

Boromir flushed and shook his head but was eventually talked into revealing his suggestion. "Well, that seneschal made me think of it," he muttered to answering laughter.

Some short while later, after much hilarity, Aragorn suggested they make their way back to the House as it was getting late in the day.

As they headed for the pathway leading out of the gardens Pippin walked alongside Boromir, watching his cousins and the others argue over whether there should be different terms for the different kindreds of elves and men or if all should be included under one name. "Well, that was fun. But I think it would be a good idea not to tell Gandalf that he's part of an implausibility of wizards. I don't think he'd take it very well."


End file.
